


the young, the reckless, and the foolish

by brucewaynery



Category: DCU, Marvel
Genre: (mostly), Angst, Bottom Tony Stark, Fluff, Friendship, M/M, Pre-Canon, Smut, endgame stevetony + superbat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:07:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22533706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brucewaynery/pseuds/brucewaynery
Summary: In most universes, they don't know each other, not in the slightest, or they hate each other, in a way that's perfectly logical for anyone who were to find themselves in a similar situation.In this one, they've known each other since they were four years old and naively idealistic.This is them over the years, against the odds.
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark, Tony Stark & Bruce Wayne, Tony Stark/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 33
Kudos: 363





	the young, the reckless, and the foolish

**Author's Note:**

> this has been about a million years coming and about 2 months too late. enjoy!

They’re both seventeen, at a Christmas gala neither of them care for, but with Bruce taking the helm of Wayne Enterprises next year, and Tony needing to put on a half-decent face to the public, Alfred had gently pushed Bruce into agreeing whilst tying his bowtie and Howard had threatened Tony into attending after Tony had ‘accidentally’ set his tie on fire.

“Nice to see you with most of your clothes on, Tony,” Bruce greets, taking a drink of his champagne.

“Most?” 

Bruce gestures to his neck, “Lost it?”

“Ties are for losers,” Tony declares, and Bruce laughs, placing the glass on the table and tugging Tony into a hug.

“Missed you,” he admits into the padded shoulder of Tony’s suit.

“You too, Brucie,” Tony says, clapping him once and letting go.

They stand in silence for a moment, both watching the gala from their coveted spot next to the bar.

“Howard once told me that I’d get used to this,” Tony muses. Bruce supposes that the alcohol had made him maudlin - or maybe they were closer than Bruce cares to admit. “But I still fucking hate it.”

Bruce takes in Tony’s attire, looking at him, really looking at him for the first time in the decade-and-a-bit he’s known him. “Wanna get out?”

Tony grins. “Bruce Thomas Wayne, propositioning me? I’d never thought I’d live to see the day! Are you sure you want to lose your virginity to me? I’ve been told I’m a pushy bottom.”

“You’re such a dick,” Bruce groans, drinking the rest of the champagne in one go, instead of commenting on that. “Maybe I wanted to stargaze, like the good old days.”

Tony gives him a look - and _fuck_ he’s missed this, missed _him_ ; he doesn’t believe in New Years’ resolutions, not in the slightest, but he makes a mental note to talk to Tony more, get out of the house more - “I think we should fuck.”

“Never pegged you for a horny drunk,” Bruce comments as Tony pulls them through the crowd. He decides to ignore Howard making a fool of himself to investors, as does Tony.

“Bruce Wayne. I don’t think I’ve ever told you, but you are far too pretty, and maybe I’m slightly drunk, for me to be anything but horny,” Tony says bluntly, pushing him against the wall of the coatroom and leaning close enough to kiss. So Bruce does, because he’s also slightly drunk, and Tony is also very pretty, and it’s far from the first kiss they’ve shared, but it’s the most violent, the most aggressive, both taking and taking until there’s nothing left and then going for more.

“You’re not a virgin, are you?” Tony asks, fumbling with Bruce’s zipper, as he kisses down his neck. Bruce takes care not to put any obvious marks, but if there happens to be some hickeys just under Tony's collar, away from prying eyes… then Tony should have worn a tie.

“Could a virgin do this?” Bruce taunts, whirling them around so Tony’s the one pressed against the wall, and dropping to his knees, taking Tony’s slacks and boxers with him. He’s stronger than Tony, always has been, and before he’d used it to win arm wrestles, but now he's glad he's repurposed that advantage by pinning Tony’s hips to the wall with his forearm. He’s taller than Tony too, enough that he has to bend down to take his bright red cock into his mouth.

Tony cries out above him and clenches a hand in his hair, “Yeah,” he pants, “not a virgin, very much-- _fuck_ \--not a virgin, holy shit Bruce, where did you-- _fuck fuck fuck, Bruce_ \--learn that,” Tony babbles and Bruce smirks around his cock, flicking his tongue in a carefully controlled manner that has Tony unravelled. 

It’s not long before Tony’s coming in white-hot spurts that Bruce swallows down. He rests for a second, slumped against him, before Tony’s pulling him up, dragging him into a deep, sloppy kiss before he drops onto his knees and proves what Bruce has always known; Tony Stark is a quick learner.

“We should do this more,” Tony comments, wiping the side of his mouth with his sleeve. Bruce bites back a groan at that.

“Makes this more interesting,” he comments, tightening his belt.

“I live to please,” Tony says, bowing cheekily. Bruce tries not to be jealous, or envious, especially with his position: he knows who he is, and what he has… envy is an ugly shade on most and uglier on the privileged, but he can’t help but yearn after Tony's cavalier, devil-may-care attitude toward life. Perks of growing up somewhere other than Gotham, he supposes. Great. Now he's the maudlin drunk.

Tony holds up a cigarette, Bruce looks at him, disbelieving.

“I do not want to burn to death,” he says, because he’s learned to show care and affection toward Tony Stark in other ways. 

Tony shrugs and pockets it, and Bruce has no doubt that he’ll smoke it later, and he wants to go to MIT and sucker punch everyone who’s gotten him into bad habits. In retrospect, he’d probably end up punching Howard Stark.

They stay in the cloakroom, sitting on the floor, catching up until it’s time for the gala to officially close. They leave a minute apart, Bruce first, to Alfred, then Tony. He sees Tony get yelled at by Howard, before Jarvis steps in. Alfred gently turns Bruce away and opens the door of the car for him. Tony blows a kiss to him as he closes the door, winking as Jarvis sighs.

* * *

They had met at a gala, not unlike the one they just had, when they were four. Bruce had found Tony hiding in the cloakroom fiddling with wires, then he’d taken him to the roof to stargaze. You couldn’t really stargaze in Gotham, Bruce had explained, shoving another canapé into his mouth (they’d convinced a waiter to give them the tray), it’s too polluted there, more than New York. Tony told him that he should come to New York more, for the stars. 

Bruce pinky promised him that he would come to more galas if he could, if Tony would be there too, and Tony smiled brighter than he had all night.

“This sucks,” Tony says, tugging on his bow tie, when they’d finished all the canapés and begun to wish they’d brought their coats.

“Yeah,” Bruce says, pulling his bow tie free from his collar, “ties are for losers.”

Tony follows suit and throws his tie at Bruce, laughing when it lands on his perfectly-parted hair.

* * *

Tony slips out of the stuffy ballroom, fumbling with a lighter and a cigarette he’s finally legally allowed, onto the balcony, occupied by one single person. Tony copies Bruce’s stance, forearms against the barrier, staring out into Gotham city.

“They want me to take over.”

“The world? That’s a pretty big ask, even for you,” Tony comments, finally getting the cigarette lit.

Bruce rolls his eyes, “Funny.”

Tony grins and blows smoke into Bruce’s face, laughing when he cries, “Dickhead!” and takes the cigarette out his hands. Bruce takes a drag, letting the nicotine settle in him, holding the smoke before he streams it out his lips. They both watch as it curls up in the sky to join the rest of the pollution hanging over the city.

“I thought you were going to college?”

Bruce shrugs, passing Tony the cigarette. “Finished.”

“Go travel. Do some soul searching,” Tony says, taking a drag and passing it back to Bruce.

“I might.”

“Goodbye kiss?”

Bruce grins at Tony’s pursed lips and leans in, under the guise of a kiss, and blows smoke in his face, laughing when Tony scowls. Tony stumps out the cigarette against the filigree of the balustrade and uses his other hand to tug Bruce by his tailored lapels down into a kiss, all rough and abrasive, messy with his tongue and his teeth, proving something (god knows _what_ ) to him.

* * *

“Hey, Tony.”

“Brucie! Good to see you!”

“Jesus, Tony, how drunk are you?”

“Not enough. You know what? We should fuck again!” Tony declares, arms wide, spilling the whiskey a little. Bruce gently takes the bottle out of his hands.

“We’re not gonna fuck again.”

“Damn.”

Bruce takes one long look at him, his dishevelled hair, old clothes, the room around him in an utter state, and pulls him into his arms, not letting go until he relaxes, practically melts into his arms, still holding tight as he begins to cry.

“I don’t think I give a shit about Howard, you know that, but… _fuck_ he killed my mom. Howard, he was driving because Jarvis took his leave and he’s not back until tomorrow, and Howard’d been fucking drinking and I’m no _fucking_ better and he killed her, he _killed_ her, he fucking… Bruce, I miss her so goddamn much and I barely, I barely get the fucking right… I didn’t barely even talk to her this year ‘cause of school, ‘cause I was getting drunk and high and fucked and I’m gonna live the rest of my life without-- without her… Bruce, I don’t… I don’t want to… Bruce…” Tony mumbles and slurs and whispers and yells into Bruce’s jumper, gripping tight. He passes out at some point, so Bruce tucks him into bed.

“Stay?” Tony asks, barely conscious. Bruce, without a second thought, tugs off his shoes and slips into bed next to him. He pulls him into his arms, letting him settle on his chest, whispering, “You’re gonna be okay, Tony, you’ll be okay.”

“Ugh. Did we fuck? Nah, you’re too good for that,” Tony grumbles when he wakes up, blindly accepting the glass of water and the (presumably) Advil Bruce pushes into his hands. He doesn’t remember yesterday that much, aside from Bruce, and crying. A lot of crying.

“Dear God,” Tony says, “I hope all that crying didn’t affect your opinion of me.”

“Tony.”

“Stop it, Jesus, lighten up, will you. It’s almost Christmas,” he adds, like an afterthought.

“Tony.”

“Fuck you,” Tony replies, without any heat.

“You’ll be okay,” Bruce says softly.

It takes a considerable amount of Tony’s fast-fading willpower to not breakdown again, but he just about manages it. Just about. But he does pull Bruce’s arm towards him and wraps himself up in him.

“Love you, dickhead,” Tony says, pretending his voice hadn’t caught over ‘dickhead’.

“Love you too.”

* * *

Bruce glares at the man who claims to be Tony’s best friend, back straight, arms crossed - a replica of the other guy. It settles him that he’s slightly taller and his muscles are slightly bigger, though he knows better than to assume that he’s got the upper hand.

“If you two are gonna fight, do it outside,” Tony says, walking into the room. “Bruce, this is Rhodey, my best friend, Rhodey, this is Bruce, my sometimes fuckbuddy.”

Bruce groans. “I sucked his dick once when we were seventeen.”

“We’re like, brothers, sort of, in like, closeness and stuff, like, I love him but I definitely think we’re gonna fuck at some point in the future--”

“Tony.”

“Right.”

Rhodey holds out a hand, “Nice to meet you.” Bruce takes it and if he grips ever so slightly more than he’d been taught to, then only Rhodey knows.

“God, you really got jacked,” Tony comments, later, when Rhodey’s gone, “all that training with the monks, right?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“Wanna fuck?”

“Absolutely.”

It’s the same rush and frantic, I-hope-we-don’t-get-caught feeling as it was when they were seventeen, but this time, they had more talent and more experience, leaving both of them fully divested of clothes and energy, breathless and grinning.

“I’m worried about you, Tony,” Bruce says, staring up at the ceiling. “Tabloids don’t paint the prettiest picture.”

Tony laughs humourlessly, “When have they ever. Gotham got its crown prince back yet?”

“Yeah. For good.”

“It missed you,” Tony cajoles, lazily tracing over a scar on Bruce’s shoulder.

“I missed it,” Bruce admits, turning to face Tony. His hand flops back on to the sheets. He wants to tell him about his plan, the vigilante, working outside the law, the Bat, but it catches in his throat. Tony’ll work it out by himself eventually anyway.

“Why is it always so dramatic with us?” Tony muses, reaching out to cup Bruce’s face in a moment of startling sobriety. His middle finger brushes against a tiny white scar that hadn’t been there last time.

“Eccentric young billionaires,” Bruce quips, pressing a teasing kiss to the heel of Tony’s palm. A slow grin spreads over Tony’s face and he flips them so Bruce is lying on his back and Tony’s straddling him.

“Maudlin was never a good look for us,” Tony says, before bending down to kiss him silly.

* * *

“Single-handedly taking down Gotham’s crime rates? I’m proud of you, Brucie,” Tony greets, with a glass of champagne Bruce refuses.

Bruce gives him a look, urging him to be quiet, especially since the press are here. “I thought you’d’ve figured it out faster.”

“First headlines, Wayne, I’m not slacking, just hadn’t had the opportunity to talk to you until now, I’ve been told you’re a busy person,” Tony says, downing the glass meant for Bruce. Later, Bruce’ll pretend to be too drunk, firmly spoiling his reputation, but for now, he’s keeping himself to the solitude of the bar, where Tony’s guaranteed to be.

Bruce just raises an eyebrow, “Tabloids,” he says, shrugging.

“You’re doing good work,” Tony says, quietly, leaning into his space in a way that’s sure to be interpreted as flirtatious by various reputable news sources present tonight.

“Thanks,” Bruce says, with a small smile just for him, hidden from the public.

“Mr. Wayne, Mr. Stark! Can I get your opinion on the Gotham Bat?” A reporter, one Kent from the _Daily Planet_. Tony watches Bruce transform in front of his eyes.

“Oh God! That Bat is _terrifying_ they should take him off the streets, I’ll donate more to the GCPD to take that halloween-costumed idiot off the streets,” Brucie gushes, leaning far too forward and swaying a bit on his feet, clearly a practised act. The reporter seems uncomfortable, but something about him tells Tony that’s just how he is.

“And you, Mr. Stark?”

“Not my city, not my halloween-costumed idiot,” Tony says, shrugging. He’s found it best to hold polarising opinions to the public - he doesn’t have a secret identity to protect, after all. Not that the general public expects a twenty-two-year-old CEO to be the paragon of perfection and business. 

Kent nods, the motion makes his clunky glasses slide down his nose a little, and then leaves, scribbling something on his notepad.

“Fuck,” Tony sighs, watching the reporter go, “I still hate this.”

Bruce grunts. 

“Do you use the Bat-voice in bed now?” Tony asks, leaning close, tinged with curiosity and something else.

“Do you want me to?”

Tony considers it for a moment. “Not particularly.”

Bruce shakes his head in exasperation and lets himself be dragged by Tony, winking at whoever bothers to turn towards them.

As soon as they’re in the elevator Tony’s kissing him breathless, like all those times before, and Bruce is pushing and pushing and trying to gain back control, dominating him the way he’s used to. He puts his considerable muscles to work and lifts Tony up, gripping tight onto his thighs and pressing him against the wall of the elevator.

“Holy shit,” Tony breathes out, tipping his head back, “please tell me wall sex is in our near future.”

He takes Bruce’s answering grin and nip at his earlobe as positive confirmation. The elevator, finally, finally, reaches its destination and dings open, and Bruce carries Tony out, just about parsing where to go. In his defence, Tony had gotten significantly better at giving hickeys, and, somewhere along the line, he’d learned Bruce’s body well enough to kiss and lick at just the right spots, with the right amount of pressure and speed.

They get to a room and Bruce presses Tony against the wall next to the door, grinding into him. When they were younger, Tony hated being smaller than Bruce, but right now, he’s too turned on to care, kissing Bruce roughly anywhere he could reach, running his hands up and down his back, tugging at his jacket until it slides off his shoulders. Bruce, in turn, tears Tony's jacket off. 

“God, that’s hot,” Tony mutters into Bruce’s skin, fiddling impatiently with his shirt buttons before giving up halfway. 

“Lube, condom?”

“Right back-- _fuck_ \--pocket.”

Bruce wants to say something about Tony assuming he’s a sure thing, or something of his sluttiness, but he can’t bring himself to care, he puts his mind to much better use and finds the lube, tugging down Tony's slacks and boxers while he’s there.

“How strong are your thighs?”

Tony tightens them as hard as he can around Bruce’s middle, rutting up into his abs as he does.

Bruce kisses him once, deep and dirty, then grips his thighs and lifts him until his hard, red, cock is level with his mouth and Tony’s legs are draped over his shoulders.

“Fuck, you bastard,” Tony breathes out, letting his head hit the wall. Bruce just grins at him, before taking the tip of his cock in his mouth and slipping a finger, slick with lube, into his ass, just up to the first knuckle. Tony rolls his hips, unable to decide between fucking into Bruce’s mouth or riding down on his finger. Bruce, the bastard, stays still, letting him be the one to make the decisions.

“Fucking _fuck_ move,” Tony begs, writhing on the wall, fully trusting Bruce not to drop him. Bruce, ever pleasing, pushing the finger all the way, drags it out, over his prostate, and then pushes the second finger in, making Tony moan and cry out and tug on his hair. He makes quick work of him, perfunctorily stretching him until he’s too desperate to wait any longer.

“Bruce if you don’t fuck me right now I swear I’m gonna come, and I really want you to fuck me,” Tony pants, riding down on his fingers, lube dribbling down his ass. Bruce licks his cock once more, making a bead of pre-come slip down, before lowering him so his legs are tight around his waist and his hole is poised above his cock. Bruce rocks in and out of him before finally sliding in.

“Thank god for gravity,” Tony mutters, impaling himself on Bruce’s thick cock, letting Bruce lift him up and gravity do the rest of the work, hammering relentlessly into his prostate each time. 

Tony hadn’t been kidding when he’d said he was close, it too an embarrassingly short amount of time for him to be on the edge. He clenches around Bruce and digs his teeth into the meat of his shoulder, urging him on, too. 

“Fuck, Tony,” Bruce pants, driving into him, shoving him up the wall, chasing his orgasm whilst stroking Tony's cock. Tony, caught between the rough slide of Bruce’s palm, callouses giving that delicious friction, and the unrelenting blunt pressure of his cock again this prostate, has no chance of staving off his orgasm, coming in an overwhelming shock, like it's being punched out of him, leaving him hanging on for dear life as his come streaks their Armani shirts, with Bruce following soon after. 

Tony slumps again him, wrapping his limbs around him with the strength he has left. Bruce carries him over to the bed and properly rids them both of their shirts, deeming them a lost cause. 

Tony turns to face him, flopping his arms over his chest. “I think that was our best, 10/10 would recommend to a friend,” Tony says, never quiet for long. In all honesty, Bruce is pretty proud of himself for keeping Tony quiet this long. 

Bruce chuckles aloud, pressing an absent-minded kiss to Tony's wrist, “Glad I haven’t lost it.”

Bruce flutters his eyes shut, revelling in the afterglow and the way Tony traces over his muscles, feather-light, delicate in a way he hasn’t had in a while. He forgets that Tony's, for all his grandeur and bluster and perpetual energy, not a very aggressive guy, he’s an engineer, after all, detail-oriented curiosity hidden under layers and layers of loud jokes and bright, toothy grins. 

“God Bruce, what’re you doing to yourself?” Tony asks, quiet, not wanting to break the moment. 

“Gotham criminal underworld,” Bruce says, opening his eyes. Tony hadn’t stopped his ministrations, focusing more on the scars, old and new. 

“Let me make the suit.”

“Tony…”

“Bruce, c’mon,” Tony wheedles, “you’ve done so damn much for me.”

“That’s because we’re friends, Tony.”

“Send me whatever schematics you have, I’ll give you improvements,” Tony compromises. 

Bruce huffs a laugh, “Mmm, I’m sure Lucius will have fun taking criticism from you,” he teases, even as he takes a mental note to send over the blueprints for the new suit.

Tony jolts. “You’ve got Lucius Fox making your stuff? Let me work with him.”

Bruce grins, “He barely has the patience for me.”

Tony, ever the mature adult he likes to tell people he is, sticks his tongue out at him, “I’m less,” he waves his hands around, gesturing to Bruce’s general being, “less.”

Bruce nods emphatically, “Definitely.”

Tony pushes at a bruise he left, “I am!”

Now, Bruce has never pretended to be a mature adult, and with Alfred keeping him ever humble, he’s never fooled himself into it. Which is why he has absolutely no compunctions about tickling Tony, between his third and fourth rib, where he remembers him being the most ticklish.

Tony giggles and squirms, “You’re a damn bastard, Bruce Wayne,” he declares, trying, and failing miserably to get him back. Bruce ends up straddling him, remorselessly tickling him.

“Uncle! Uncle!” Tony begs, attempting to still Bruce’s hands.

“You’re pretty when you beg, Stark,” Bruce says, finally stopping, but still lightly tracing his body, fingers running over his ribs then circling his nipples. 

Tony's eyes darken in response, “I’m pretty always, Wayne.”

“That you are.”

* * *

“Fucks’ sake Tony,” Bruce mutters, dropping heavily into the hospital chair. He stays until he wakes up, pushing any thoughts of an unprotected Gotham out of his mind.

“I know for a fact we didn’t fuck this time,” Tony says, voice croaky and hoarse. Bruce pushes a cup of ice chips towards him.

“What are you doing, Tony?”

“I’m doing fine,” Tony insists, hooked up to an IV bag, barely a day after getting his stomach pumped.

“No, Tony, really, what are you doing?”

“Who fucking cares, huh? Everyone’s gone, Jarvis is gone, Rhodey’s probably given up too, Obi’s definitely given up, no-one fucking expects me to be anything but a shitfaced idiot and what? I’m proving them fucking right.”

“Stop pitying yourself, damnit, Stark,” Bruce growls, “I know you can do better, Rhodey does too, and Jarvis wouldn’t want you to do this, you know that. You’re a hell of a lot better than you think, Tony.” 

Tony breaks eye contact to stare out the window. “What if I’m not?”

“You are.”

Tony gives him a look, far too goddamn tired than he should be, year and years older than he is. Repercussions of being eccentric young billionaires, he supposes. “What if I’m not better than Howard, and all I live to, all I become is a fucking warmonger, what then? Am I still _better_?”

Bruce huffs a laugh, smiling bitterly, “You know damn well you are.”

“He’s right,” a new voice says, female, around their age. Bruce turns to confirm his suspicions. “Virginia Potts, you can call me Pepper,” the woman, Pepper says, holding her hand out. 

Bruce stands to shake it, “Bruce Wayne.” He recognises the look in her eye and the tightness of her grip. She cares for Tony.

He rests a hand on Tony’s shoulder and leans down to press a kiss to his cheek, “You’ll be better,” he whispers, before he leaves with a nod to Pepper.

“Old flame?” Pepper asks, when she thinks Bruce is beyond earshot. 

“Something like that.”

* * *

“Mr. Wayne, good to see you,” Tony greets, back straight, hair perfectly slicked, facial hair perfectly cut and shaved. 

“And you, Stark,” Bruce replies, giving him an up-and-down, partly for the Brucie image, partly to see him attempt to hide his blush.

In true careless, slutty, bachelor fashion, he spends the entire meeting flirting with Tony, seemingly not paying any attention to anything other than Tony and his various, immensely distracting assets.

“Please tell me you’re here to fuck,” Tony says, closing the door on all the other board members, leaving the two of them alone.

“Don’t tell me you think I’m a sure thing?”

Tony raises his eyebrows and slides his hands around Bruce’s waist, inside his jacket, feeling for the hidden pockets until he finds two foil packets. Keeping one hand around his waist, Tony holds them up triumphantly.

Bruce, in response, kisses Tony and backs him up against the glass conference table.

-

“I’ve been told you adopted a son,” Tony says, when they’re both spent, the sun long set, lying on the table.

Bruce gives a noncommittal grunt.

“Okay.”

Bruce groans what Tony decides as a not-fun groan. “Don’t give me that, I intended to tell you… it just slipped my mind.”

“You’ve recruited him as your sidekick, haven’t you?”

“I don’t know what you’re on about.”

“Bruce.”

“Couldn’t stop him if I tried,” Bruce shrugs.

Tony smiles slightly, “What does your super-boyfriend think of it?”

Bruce splutters slightly, “I’ve met him once!”

“And?”

“He’s a pain.”

“In the ass,” Tony, predictably, finishes, grinning.

“Dickhead.”

Bruce doesn’t mention how the last time he saw him, he was lying in a hospital bed, and Tony doesn’t mention the new scars adorning Bruce’s body, opting instead to function as they always have been - pushing buttons and teasing, like they’re half a decade younger and have a fraction of the responsibilities. 

* * *

They’re in Bruce’s study, drinking decades-old Dalmore like water, watching the snow fall, flakes, unique and delicate, twisting, turning and swirling from the heavens to settle next to their brethren atop Wayne manor. Dick had been fast asleep when Tony came, exhausted after a week of school and patrol. Maybe Bruce shouldn’t be giving Tony alcohol, but he knows what he’s going through, and he needs a friend, not a counsellor.

“I finished it,” Tony says, the first thing he’d said all day. “JARVIS. Just A Rather Very Intelligent System.”

“That’s…”

“Sad? Pathetic?” Tony's never been particularly good at holding back his self-deprecating tendencies on most days, but today, drunk, with Bruce… he's a lost cause.

“Tony. It’s incredible,” Bruce says, quietly, because it is, a breakthrough in AI technology. In the back of his mind thoughts of awards and prizes float in, but he knows that Tony doesn’t care for those.

“Won’t bring him back,” Tony says, hollow.

“No, no it won’t.”

Tony bites hit lip, hard, and a tear falls down his cheek, despite his best efforts. It lingers on his jawline before silently crashing on his shirt. “I know, I just… fuck, Bruce I miss him, I miss him so damn much and I talk to the AI and I wanna fuckin’ burn the servers and the notes and delete everything and I know I have to let go because he’s gone and he’s dead and he’s not coming back but I… I need this. Need him.”

Tony tips himself into Bruce’s side, and Bruce wraps his arms around him, “It’s okay, Tony. You’re doing good.”

Tony takes a huge, shuddering breath, and Bruce holds him tighter, uncaring when his shirt gets soaked through with his tears, just whispering comforts and assurances to him.

“God, this is depressing,” Tony mutters into Bruce’s chest, face wet and eyes shining. 

Bruce just shrugs, “Lifestyles of the rich and famous,” he says, stroking Tony’s hair until they both fall asleep. 

In the morning, they have a blanket draped over them, and Bruce has forgotten just how bad his hangovers got and Tony’s smiling and laughing and teasing him and tugging him up, dragging him in the direction of Alfred’s waffles, and he knows that they’re not going to talk about it until next December, in the same way, he’ll only talk about his parents in September, but that’s okay, neither of them are particularly emotionally sound enough to go through all this multiple times a year.

“Who are you?” Dick asks, peering curiously up at Tony. Bruce hangs back slightly to watch them.

“I’m Tony, Bruce’s… friend.”

Dick looks contemplatively at him, then beckons him down to whisper something in his ear.

“I think you’re probably Bruce’s best friend, apart from me and Alfred and Superman, and you better not be mean to him… ‘cause I know how to hurt you real bad,” Dick whispers. 

“Bruce is one of my best friends too, I’ll try my best to do good by him,” Tony whispers back, holding out his hand to shake. The kid has a surprisingly strong grip.

“I think your kid thinks we’re together,” Tony tells Bruce, once they’ve seen Dick off to school and Bruce is walking Tony out, kicking up snow as they walk down the path, “I’m pretty sure he just gave me the shovel talk.”

Bruce laughs, “He’s a sweet kid.”

“He threatened to hurt me real bad!”

Bruce laughs even more, “I’ve taught him well, then.”

Tony grumbles something Bruce doesn’t catch, before hugging him and kissing him on the cheek, “Don’t do anything monumentally stupid.”

“That’s my line!”

* * *

“Identify yourself.”

Bruce almost jumps out of his skin when he hears the voice of a ghost in Tony’s ceiling. Almost. 

“Bruce Thomas Wayne--”

“JARVIS, no terrorizing my friends!”

Tony pulls Bruce into a hug, waving behind him, presumably gesturing to JARVIS, “It’s good to see you, what brings you to Malibu?”

“Business,” Bruce grumbles. He doesn’t like being away from Gotham long, but he does have a reputation to utterly destroy, again.

“God, you need the sun more,” Tony says, taking in Bruce properly.

“You sound like Alfred.”

“I care for you, Brucie,” Tony says, grinning, and to prove it, he drags him in for a deep kiss before pulling him inside. “Reporters.”

“JARVIS, catalogue Bruce as good people,” Tony instructs.

“As you wish, Sir. Forgive my initial hostility, Mr. Wayne,” JARVIS says.

“Don’t take it personally, I’m his favourite,” Tony says, threading his arm through Bruce’s.

“That spot could be overtaken by you, Mr. Wayne, should you prove yourself capable of taken care of my creator,” JARVIS says, and he’s taken by just how alike he is to the human Jarvis.

“I’ll do my best.”

* * *

_Twenty-nine-year-old CEO of Stark Industries, Tony Stark, presumed dead or captured following events at the weapons demo in Afghanistan. The US military claims to--_

Alfred mutes the TV before Bruce can hear what the US military claim. He’ll hack them later anyway, might be a useful lesson for Dick.

But first, he picks up the phone.

“Rhodes?”

“ _Wayne_?”

Bruce doesn’t bother with platitudes and greetings, because he’s seen the publicly released reports, Colonel James Rhodes was with Tony Stark when the events occurred. Rhodes probably doesn’t care about the platitudes either.

“Let me help.”

There’s a long silence on the other end of the line before Rhodes agrees.

It doesn’t really matter though, because in true Tony Stark fashion, he explodes himself out of a cave, then shuts down his business’ most lucrative source of income. Bruce wants to go over to Malibu and congratulate him himself, but what with Superman and the rising Gotham crime rates, he can’t bear to tear himself from the city, he just calls him and gets reassurance that he’s doing the best he can. Although, Bruce has never known Tony to do any less.

Later, Bruce watches on one of the screens in the Cave he has set to MSNCB as Tony clears his throat and glances down at his cue cards. A split second before, Bruce realises that Tony’s going to entirely disregard whatever Ms. Potts wrote for him.

_“The truth is… I am--”_

* * *

“Iron Man?”

“Look, I didn’t choose the name,” Tony defends, touching down on the Wayne manor helipad. He sets the suit into sentry mode before following Bruce inside. 

“Catchy, though.”

Tony shrugs, “Better than ‘gold-titanium man’.”

They face each other, in front of the old, stained glass windows of the manor, coloured glass leading to mottled colours over their faces. Old friends hug, gripping on to each other, tight, reluctant to let go. Bruce should have gone to Malibu, definitely, without a doubt. When they part, neither mention how close to tears they are.

“I have something to show you,” Tony says, unbuttoning his shirt, letting the brilliant blue light shine out. 

Bruce traces the rim reverently, “Miniaturized arc reactor? How did you…”

“Palladium.”

Bruce looks up sharply, then spreads his hands, pushing aside the folds of Tony’s shirt to reveal the dark matrix extending outward, “Tony…”

“I’m working on it.”

“You better.” Bruce goes to say something else, but he’s interrupted by Dick.

“Mr. Stark!”

Tony quickly covers up his chest, “Good to see you, kid, God, you’re gonna overtake your father at this rate,” he says, sizing him up.

“Tony, he’s already taller than you,” Bruce says, grinning.

“Lies and slander,” Tony says mildly, “tell me, Dickie, how is Bruce these days?”

“He has a crush on Superman!”

Somehow, somewhere, Dick had gotten this ridiculous, absolutely absurd and entirely unfounded idea in his head that Bruce even likes Superman. 

“Richard!” 

“Bruce!” Dick mimics back. Bruce idly wonders if this is the start of his rebellious teen phase, despite still having a couple months left until he really hits the teens.

Bruce refuses to be embarrassed about his non-existent crush in the slightest, and, instead, changes the subject, “Please tell me you’re here for something other than making fun of my love life?”

“Stargazing,” Tony says, grandly.

Dick readily agrees and they both drag Bruce out onto the roof, with the compromise of keeping a police radio near them, in case something happens, even though Gotham crime has been on a downslope lately and prison populations have gone up.

They stay up on the roof with Dick until he’s yawning and valiantly trying to stay awake, then Bruce is pushing downstairs to get some shut-eye.

After Dick ambles down the stairs, Tony swings himself with ease onto Bruce’s lap.

“Hi.”

“Hello, these just for show?” Bruce asks, stroking his hands down Tony’s biceps. He’d never been particularly weak, working with heavy machinery has it’s benefits, but now, after all this Iron Man business, his muscles had become more defined, and Bruce has always been a man to appreciate that.

Tony grins, lewd and unabashed, and leans down to kiss him, fast and dirty, and he uses his leverage to push Bruce down so he’s lying with his back against the blanket. Bruce’s hands drift lower and he grips Tony’s ass entirely unashamedly. 

“Superheroeing has its perks,” Bruce murmurs.

“My ass has always been this good, Wayne,” Tony taunts, before he finds himself under Bruce faster than he could blink. He’ll gladly admit, he likes this view. And being hauled around by him still hasn’t lost its novelty. Niether had semi-romantic fucking under the stars.

Later, when the night air cools their sweaty skin and all thoughts of patrol are safely out of Bruce’s mind, he says it before Tony can.

“You’re dying.”

Tony looks away, tracking a plane that flies over, “Unique condition.” 

“Was this meant to be goodbye?” Bruce asks, softly. In the dim light, Tony’s arc reactor shines bright, making the dark matrix on his body all the more obvious.

Tony shrugs against his chest, “Maybe.”

Bruce tights his arms against Tony and Tony has to make a valiant effort not to break down right there. He’s known about the effects of palladium on the human body long before he stuck it in between his lungs, he’s known that he’d probably die young long before the cave, but now, facing it, even when by all calculations he should still last to maybe his 30th birthday, it seems utterly terrifying. God, he’s just turned into Iron Man, he’s finally doing good, after three decades of bad, he’s making a change in the world that doesn’t end with innocent lives lost… and now he’s being forced to stop by his own physiology. 

It’s goddamn fucking unfair. 

Tears prick at the corners of his eyes and he resolutely stares into the far distance, at the blinking green lights of Gotham harbour, letting himself be held and comforted.

In the morning, Tony smiles at Dick and challenges him to an arm wrestle, which ends in a rematch with the Iron Man suit, makes fun of Bruce and the yet-to-be-confirmed relationship with Superman, and he even helps Alfred with the dishes. If Bruce hadn’t seen him pretend to be okay into the early hours of the morning, he’d have utterly no idea that his friend may not live to see his thirtieth. 

He sends him off, later, with a promise to answer any calls and the requisite kiss on the cheek. A week after, he watches Tony almost get killed by a Dr. Light ripoff at the Grand Prix.

Tony doesn’t go to his birthday party, but Bruce doesn’t particularly expect him to, and Bruce doesn’t go to his, though he calls and JARVIS assures him that Tony’s alive and… well, he’s alive. 

And then he gets a call with Tony halfway through his sentence already, talking about re-discovery, and maybe his father was an asshole but he ended up, inadvertantly, saving his life and that night wasn’t goodbye in the slightest and oh fuck, Rhodey will be incredibly pissed, but Tony eventually supposes that being alive makes it worth it, and he’s partially indebted to his new secretary who actually works for a pirate, but that’s for another time.

“I’m proud of you, Tony,” Bruce says, once Tony’s paused, if only to take a breath. 

“ _You damn well should be!_ ”

Bruce laughs, Tony carries on, and all is right with the world, if Tony Stark is talking incessantly and Bruce Wayne listens with an acquired taste that only becomes in some way acquired through years and years of friendship.

* * *

Bruce watches with bated breath as Captain America and the rest of the new-found Avengers crouch around Iron Man. The Hulk roars and Tony gasps awake. 

Bruce takes note to send him a card ‘Well done for learning to work with others’, maybe a gold sticker too.

-

Tony watches Superman and Batman fight Darkseid in perfect unison, the way he and Rogers miraculously managed to do mere weeks ago. He glances at the card propped up next to one of his monitors. 

“JARVIS, it’s time to send a return card to Bruce, don’t you think?”

* * *

After that, things move at breakneck speed for both of them; turns out, leading two very different lives is incredibly time consuming. Both of them nearly die countless times, Superman meets Captain America and they become absurdly close friends, _Tony_ becomes absurdly close friends with Steve Rogers, Bruce gets caught favouring a certain reporter, and that’s how Tony finds out Superman’s secret identity.

“Dear god, Brucie, I’d never thought you would cheat on your childhood lover with a Metropolitan,” Tony says, grinning at Bruce after he’d recounted a story regarding one Clark Kent, reporter from Metropolis.

“Technically,” Bruce starts, with far too little compunctions and far too much alcohol (in his defence, he gets a free pass today), “he’s Kryptonian.” He hears, rather than sees, Tony’s tumbler crash and splinter on the hardwood floors.

“Him!?”

Bruce grins in a way he knows is stupidly lovesick and against everything Batman stands for, but he can’t bring himself to care, “Yeah, him.”

“That superstrength better be useful,” Tony mutters. 

“You tell me,” Bruce shoots back. He, and the rest of America, have seen the way Tony holds Captain America when they fly (and the way that it absolutely does not parallel the way Clark holds him sometimes (at this point he’s just about barely stopping himself from suing the _Daily Bugle_ and selling the _Daily Planet_ ) and all the little ‘getting the ol’ time-traveller re-acquainted with New York’ dates they’ve been going on. 

Tony, in all the maturity of his thirty-odd years, sticks his tongue out at Bruce.

* * *

Bruce is there for Tony when Cap’s old war buddy comes back, when he finds out what really happened to Tony’s parents, Tony’s there when Dick leaves, when Jason comes, when Jason goes, when they’re both in shambles and the governments of the world just want to batter them until they’re atoms, scattered and fragmented with no hope of coming back together. 

And miraculously, impossibly, they do.

They beat every odd thrown at them and what else are they meant to do? 

-

“I’ve known Tony for far too long, long enough that I knew a kid who refused to wear ties and threw them at unsuspecting members of high society, then I knew an adult who did the right thing, at whatever expense presented, he always… always did the right thing, never backed down, never gave up, and in all those considerable years, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him truly happy… truly at ease until recently. And it’s not the Iron Man suit that’s giving him that. I won’t say that Tony’s like a brother, but he is one of my best friends, and after all the shit he’s been through, he deserves this… I’m happy for you, Tony,” Bruce raises his glass in a toast and the room copies him. Tony smiles, brilliant and wide, and only the slightest bit teary, which he will vehemently deny later.

Bruce and Clark aren’t going to get married, for them, it was simply just not on the table, never had been. The lives they lead are too separated, two different worlds, to be united by law, but that didn’t mean they were any less devoted to one another. Maybe once, Bruce had fantasized about having a traditional nuclear family, about replicating what had been torn away from him, but that’s all it was; a fantasy.

What he has now, with Clark, with the Justice League, with all his adoptive children… he holds more affection for them combined than he believes is possible to write on paper.

Maybe sometime in the future, when the Brucie image dies down, and they can create a plausible way for Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne to meet, maybe then, if will be a thing, but for now, Bruce is happy to cheer for Tony and Steve and completely ignore the ring he has in a lead-lined case in a lead-lined safe in a hidden compartment in the manor that’s dual-locked with a retina scanner and a password that changes every 60 seconds. 

* * *

Now, they make an effort to meet at least once a year, on a day not weighted with history, without any children (Bruce will vehemently deny the fact that Dick and Jason are no longer children, just as Tony refuses to believe that Peter and Harley are well into college) or significant others and teammates, and if they’re lucky, without any world/universe/multiverse-ending-catastrophe. 

And, of course, with amounts alcohol neither of them really should be having resulting in a great deal of maudlin neither of them can handle more than twice a year.

They’re most of the way through a bottle of whiskey, gone silent a quarter way through, when Bruce speaks up, “You think we’ve done good?”

Tony simply raises an eyebrow at him, “We still have a lot of good to give.”

Bruce, Tony thinks, does what he does out of a vengeance that had, at some point, turned into duty, Batman protects the innocent by attacking the attackers, the image and reputation of it has become so much larger than Bruce himself, the shadow of Batman haunts the Gotham streets, inexplicably making it better, safer. Tony wonders how he’s managed to keep it to himself for so long, his self-control is infinitely greater than Tony’s, his dedication to his city and Batman has been so consistently _there_ , and present for so long, Tony’s in awe of him. Bruce Wayne, on the other hand, throws money with startling accuracy and in either suit, in either mask, Bruce does what he fundamentally believes is good. 

Tony, Bruce thinks, fights because he can, because it’s the right thing to do, because, at this point, he can’t _not_ , he can’t sit on the sidelines when he can help. Iron Man is such a beacon of light and hope and power, not just for New York, but for the world - it’s loud and shiny proof of Tony’s mind and perseverance. Tony’s infinitely braver than Bruce is, Bruce is fairly sure, because he’s long declared to the world that he moonlights as Iron Man, he’s long since opened up his life and his family to all the multiverse’s villains and at one point Bruce would have admonished it, but he realises and recognises the sheer amount of power Tony had, unveiling to the world that he’s Iron Man.

Under most circumstances, Tony Stark and Bruce Wayne shouldn't really be friends, technically they’re business rivals, their alter-egos couldn’t be further apart, their ideals, motivations, intentions, actions are all so different, but fundamentally, they’re the same, they want to get to the same place, even if their cars and routes are different.

Bruce easily concedes to Tony, smiling slightly. He tips his glass towards him and Tony clinks it in a silent toast: a toast to them.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading!! this year i want to try out some longer-form fics (so no more challenges and bingos lmao) so watch out for those!
> 
> leave a comment/kudo if you enjoyed it!  
> tumblr: 1872s


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